


Will Sing For Mince Pies

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas eve--Bodie and Doyle were supposed to have the holiday off, but first there's a kidnapped aristocrat to rescue and ruffians to dispose of. And Christmas carols to sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will Sing For Mince Pies

Murphy murdered the high note in _Silent Night_ and Anson was flat during the entire chorus. Bodie winced, wishing for a pair of ear plugs.

"Couple of screech owls. Who the hell thought this lot could masquerade as carollers?" Doyle said close to Bodie's ear. "The neighbourhood watch'll call the coppers on us, like as not."

"No mince pies and cups of tea by a warm fire, either," Bodie said gloomily before launching loudly into _O' come All Ye Faithful."_ Anything to drown out Murphy and Anson.

 _"Joyful and triumphant!"_ Doyle warbled beside him, strolling down Petunia Lane towards their goal—the grey house on the corner.

"Let them take the front door," Bodie whispered, enjoying Doyle's voice. His partner could actually sing. Apparently, neither Murphy or Anson knew the words to this song because they had gone much quieter. A vast improvement. "That'll keep the inhabitants busy whilst we go 'round the back."

"Just as well." Doyle knotted his tartan scarf around his neck, all rakish charm. "I'd rather take the tradesman's entrance. Suits me style."

Standing just beyond the cone of brightness from the corner street lamp, Bodie wanted to tell him that he was better than that, but the other two crowded in close. Didn't matter, he wasn't supposed to be mooning after Doyle anyway. They had a job to do, rescue the girl. Once that was accomplished, he could dangle sugar plums in front of Doyle for the rest of the holidays.

"Another one, lads?" Anson said loudly enough to be heard on the next street over. _"Lit'le Town of Bethlehem?"_

"I'd rather sing the Wassail Song," Bodie said, examining the grey house. Appeared unguarded and quiet. From the intel, only one man lived there, but he undoubtedly had accomplices in the kidnapping. Would they be dangerous, even bearing arms? The ransom demand had been issued in a gruff, sinister voice that brooked no nonsense—Ten thousand pounds upon delivery or no Lady Veronica. And a series of vague but ominous threats.

Beside him, Doyle inclined his head, indicating where he was planning to go. A large hedge surrounded the property, hiding the back garden from the neighbours.

Pretending to fumble with his hymnal, Murphy checked the gun in his pocket. "We'll distract whoever comes to the door, yeah?"

"If Lady Veronica is being held on the upper floor, it'll take us longer to get there." Bodie glanced up at the two storey house. "We don't know how many are watching her."

"We'll sing a whole song through before knocking," Anson said confidently. "There are half a dozen verses to _We Three Kings."_

"There's only two of you," Doyle pointed out before loping off into the shrubbery on the left side of the house.

"What does that have to do with the song?" Bodie whispered when he'd joined Doyle in the foliage.

"Two blokes, three kings?" Doyle said out of the corner of his mouth, flicking his eyes left and right to survey the back garden.

Bodie raised his eyebrow, having a bit of fun despite their dangerous assignment.

"Bodie!" Doyle sing-songed, emphasising the second syllable. "Didn't you ever perform in a nativity play at church? Tea towels tied around the heads of the little boys for shepherds, older boys the three kings with gilt paper crowns and which ever of me sisters was the right age to wear Mary's pale blue veil."

"Couldn't rope me into such utter rubbish." Bodie crept around the tidy house, eyeing the back entrances. He could hear Anson and Murphy launch into a truly awful version of the traditional hymn. "Nan didn't mind. We always turned the radio on, listened to Her Majesty's broadcast on Christmas day."

"Looks easy enough." Doyle poked him in the ribs, indicating an ivy trellis that ran up the side of the house to the second floor. "I could nip up, check the windows—look for the Lady."

"Fall and break your neck, just as likely," Bodie groused, but he knew Doyle would do it. Made sense, really. Doyle weighed at least a stone less than he did. Bodie didn't have to like it, though. "Up you go," Bodie said, cupping his hands to give Doyle a leg up.

"You'll catch me if I fall?" The vapor cloud from Doyle's breath frosted in the cold air and then dissipated away.

"Just as long as you don't squash me flat." Bodie whispered, watching Doyle's tight ass scamper up the flimsy looking latticework. Bodie's heart sped up. The sight did funny things to his stomach—and cock.

Doyle was up in a flash. He clung to the struts, peering into the bedroom windows on either side of his perch. With a satisfied nod, he repeated his monkey routine and climbed down to the winter brown grass.

"See anything?" Bodie asked lightly, pretending a nonchalance he didn't feel. "Anson's warbling the third verse of that dreadful song. It's now or never, sunshine."

Suddenly, they both heard a loud bellow. "Wot the 'ell you two caterwauling on about?" a voice yelled at the front of the house. "Get out!"

"It's now!" Doyle hissed, using one shoulder to slam into the back door. The door frame splintered, but the lock held.

Bodie gave the door a rough kick and then they were both inside and running up the stairs. No-one challenged their arrival. The single male voice was arguing with Murphy.  
Bodie heard Anson ask for a cuppa, but he was checking for his weapon and didn't pay attention to the rest of the conversation.

"Room on the le—" Doyle started, apparently realising that he was now reversed to his position hanging outside the house. "Right."

A burly man with the thick shoulders and neck of a weight lifter stepped out of the room with an angry cry. "Kevin!"

"Kevin's busy just now, will I do?" Doyle shoved his gun into the man's belly, side stepping a blow that would have knocked him to his knees.

Bodie grabbed the man's arm, twisting it behind his back and pushing the bullyboy's thumb up and over. He knew from personal experience that it hurt like hell—enough to make grown men cry. "Not practicing our manners, are we?" Bodie cooed, shoving him into the wall.

He couldn't hear Murphy or Anson singing any longer and hoped to God the two of them had taken care of Kevin.

Doyle squeezed past them in the narrow passageway and into the small bedroom. "Lady Veronica?" he called out gently.

The handcuffs barely fit round the man's enormous wrists, but once secured, he was docile enough. Bodie shook his pistol at him. "Stay put and I promise those two so called carollers will not be serenading you all the way back to gaol."

The kidnapper curled his lip, bearing grungy teeth, but the look in his eye proved he knew he'd been scuppered.

"It's all right, love, stop your crying." Doyle came out cradling a tiny blond child in his arms. She was sobbing loudly, with her teary face almost buried in his wool jacket. "Your mum and dad are waiting for you right now."

Although Bodie knew she was supposed to be all of six, with her long fair hair tangled and loose and the thumb in her mouth, she looked barely three. He wanted to kick the child's kidnappers to a Soviet Gulag and leave them there. Bloody bastards.

Instead, he put on his best Uncle William smile. "Lady Veronica, I presume? I'm Bodie and this golliwog is Doyle."

"Not a golliwog. He's not made of cloth," Lady Veronica said around her thumb. She sucked a moment longer and pulled it out of her mouth with a wet plop, looking suspiciously between them. She didn't fight Doyle's hold, but she didn't look too sure of him either, now that her tears had slowed. Taking a deep breath, she glared at the kidnapper sitting on the floor. "Michael's been really, really bad!"

"I'd say he has been, my lovely," Doyle smiled cheerily at her. "And he won't be getting any Christmas pud."

"I'm hungry," she announced, obviously accepting that they'd saved her from another night in captivity. "Where's my mum?"

"I'm peckish, as well," Bodie agreed, hauling bad Michael up by his belt and shoving his toward the stairwell. "On your feet. It's Christmas night in the slammer for you—and Boxing Day, as well, unless I miss my guess. His Honour the judge won't be missing out on his hols just for the likes of you."

"I demand me barrister!" Michael said gruffly, taking surprisingly dainty steps down the stairs. "Her mum hired me on as a nanny, she did. All on the up and up."

"Mary Poppins you are not," Bodie said wryly. He kept a vigilant watch on both Michael and Doyle toting the child since he had not swept the rest of the house for any other kidnappers.

"He's a liar!" Veronica said boldly from the safety of Doyle's arms.

"You'll never have to see him again," Doyle assured, looking around the deserted entry way and lounge. "What's happened to Anson and Murphy? Where in the bloody…?"

"Ray," Bodie reminded, nodding at Lady Veronica. "Little ears…"

"Oh—erm." Doyle smiled winningly at the girl. "Will you stay right here until I can bring the car around?"

Her lower lip trembled slightly, but Lady Veronica was the product of generations of proud British aristocracy. She stiffened her lip and popped her thumb back into her mouth. "Is there cake?" she asked as Doyle put her down.

Bodie deposited Michael by the door to wait and discovered that Kevin had apparently been raised right—or at least as well as anyone could who'd kidnapped the daughter of a Peer. There was a package of Sainsbury's mince tarts on the table by the sofa for strolling carollers, and a pot of tea that was still warm.

Relieved of his burden, Doyle rubbed his left shoulder. He pulled the r/t out of a jacket pocket. "4.5 to 6.2, have you gone missing?"

"We're loading the prisoner into the car, 4.5," Anson replied quite promptly. "Had to deal with the local constabulary. Apparently some old bi…woman—"

Bodie stifled a laugh at Anson's pause. He obviously wanted to say something far less polite over the open airways. Lady Veronica regarded Bodie solemnly with bright blue eyes, her brow furrowed. In the last two days, she'd probably learned a number of new words that she was not allowed to use at the family manse.

"Called to complain about the noise," Anson finished, a squawk of radio static punctuating his words. "Don't know what she was going on about."

"Milady?" Bodie gave Veronica a courtly bow and waved a hand at the threadbare furnishings. "Would you care for a mince pie?"

"I like treacle," she said around her thumb.

"Treacle definitely has its merits," Bodie agreed, feeling his heart rate jitter and skip a beat as the adrenalin spike drained away. He liked to boast about his calm, cool exterior, but in the heat of the moment, even he couldn't escape the body's natural instincts.  
He patted the cushions and held out a pie to Veronica.

Doyle mashed the talk button on the r/t, glancing back at Michael. "The coppers' panda will be useful, in any case. Our guest needs a ride. We'll escort Lady Veronica back to headquarters ourselves."

"I'm eating just now," Veronica said stubbornly, shoving a second mince pie into her mouth.

"Didn't they feed her?" Doyle asked, anger flashing in his eyes. "Damn…"

He was interrupted when a smooth faced youth in police blues walked in to take Michael into custody. "PC Patrick Reilly," the copper said smartly.

Michael scowled at everyone present. "We was nice to her! Don't let her tell you false!"

"Bloody git," Doyle muttered to Michael's back as he was led away.

Bodie grinned irreverently, winking at Veronica. She had sticky residue all around her mouth and he solicitously wiped her up with the cleanest of Kevin's serviettes. "Never you mind him, princess, Doyle's never learnt how to behave in public."

He didn't have to look back to know that Doyle was glaring at him. Just the knowledge warmed him down deep.

For the first time, Lady Veronica smiled. It was a small one, tremulous, and a dimple peeked out of her right cheek. "I'm not allowed to talk like that, but my father always that about the effing Labour party." Her diction was crisp, the accent an exact copy a graduate of Eton and Oxford.

Doyle howled with laughter, shoving the r/t in his pocket. "And well he should, my lovely. If you'd had your tea, your parents are certainly anxious to see you again. I'll get the car." He trotted down the front steps into the street now filled with police and inquisitive neighbours.

Lady Veronica pushed her tangled hair off her face and peered up at Bodie. Apparently satisfied with anyone who would feed her, she grasped his hand tightly and let out a hiccupy sob. "Are they angry with me?"

"Why would they be angry?" Bodie wanted to protect her from every bogey man in existence.

"I went with Michael when I shouldn't have." She scuffed one of her patent leather shoes against the braided rug, tears leaking from her eyes again. "He wasn't my nanny or anything, like he said. He was just a minder. We weren't supposed to leave the grounds, but he told me I could have an ice cream. Chocolate." The flood gates opened and she sobbed. "Now I've ruined Christmas and missed Father Christmas!" She wailed as if her heart would break.

"Veronica!" Bodie knelt, closing his arms around her tiny shaking body. She was such a dichotomy of prim and proper lady with a dash of spitfire in her soul that balanced out the scared little girl. "Your mum and dad have been frantic. You'll see." He hoisted her into his arms, walking down the stairs to the pavement. Several news reporters had apparently tailed the police, and flashbulbs went off in Bodie's face. Lady Veronica turned her head into his shoulder until they made it to the safety of the Capri. "Get us out of here at all speed," Bodie said to Doyle, tucking Veronica into his lap.

"Glad to." Doyle steered the car out of the maze of emergency vehicles. _"Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh…"_ he sang gaily until the smile came back on Veronica's lips.

"I haven't been a good girl…" Veronica said with a sigh.

"You've been brave, and that counts twice with Father Christmas," Doyle said, as if he'd known what Bodie and Veronica were talking about in the house.

"Remember." Bodie tapped a fingertip to the end of her nose. "Father Christmas doesn't ever come until you are safely tucked into your bed and sound asleep." He'd heard the sweet story often enough, even though it had never applied to him. As a child, the only Santa Claus he'd ever seen was a ratty one with a straggly cotton wool beard and ale breath handing out charity gifts to little children who would otherwise have gone without. "You'll wake tomorrow to see a mountain of gifts under the Christmas tree."

"Honestly?" Lady Veronica gazed solemnly at him, guileless and pure. "I thought…" Whatever had scared her for the last two days was tucked away, the well bred young lady reemerging. "I want my mum and dad. They'll thank you, they have pots of money."

"All I need is to see you happy, princess," Bodie said honestly.

Viscount Douglas Cavanaugh and Lady Sarah were waiting with Cowley in his office, fortified with his fine whisky. They gathered Veronica into their arms and would hardly let her loose to be examined by a doctor. Once pronounced healthy, if a bit dehydrated, she was sent home to wait for Father Christmas under the watchful eyes of her relieved parents. A job well done.

Except, as often happened, Bodie was still prickling with energy, excess adrenalin bubbling in his veins. Wide awake and overly alert, well past midnight, he kept remembering holding Veronica in his lap. Her heart had been going a mile a minute under his palm, even after she'd outwardly calmed down. What people hid inside: all that fear, uncertainty and loneliness. Were Michael and Kevin motivated by greed? If so, why ruin the most magical of days? Veronica would ever after be reminded of cruelty and nastiness on Christmas eve—a day that should be full of joy and miracles.

Bodie sat back in the car as Doyle drove through the dark streets of London. It was Christmas. In a few hours, church bells would peel, announcing the birth of the baby Jesus. Whether or not belief in the Christ child was included, Christmas Day brought expectations of happiness and good cheer.

Watching Doyle's silent profile, Bodie thought back to Christmases past. No need for a Dickensian ghost, he could remember on his own very well. His nan, counting her ha'pennies with a puckered frown that he hadn't quite understood at first. As the years passed, he'd put in his shillings and pence, earned from odd jobs, well aware that Nan could hardly make ends meet on the best of weeks. All the bountiful trimmings of Christmas were only a pipe dream around their house, but the small bird and special pudding with hard sauce were all the more appreciated for the sacrifices made. Just like the Crachett family, to continue his analogy.

Bodie was so deep in his reverie that it took him a few seconds to identify that the soft tune he could hear was not BBC radio playing Christmas carols. Doyle was singing under his breath. He would never rival Elton John or Paul McCartney, but there was depth and a real wistfulness in his voice.

 _"Silent night, holy night…"_ Doyle sang. _"All is calm, all is bright…"_ He pulled to a stop in front of his flat, looking up into the fog shrouded sky. The moon was barely visible, a pale glow instead of a steady silver tuppence. _"Round yon virgin, mother and child…"_

Bodie felt caught up in something more than himself, more than what had just happened. _"Holy infant so tender and mild,"_ he joined in, the gentle sweetness of the beautiful lullaby soothing his overtaxed soul. _"Sleep in heavenly peace…"_

 _"Sleep in heavenly peace."_ Doyle had never been very loud and the last few words were nearly inaudible. "Me mum used to haul us all to midnight mass, to pray for the Christ child. And then we'd be back in the church the next morning for the requisite nativity play—but my favourite part was just after the late service. The church'd be in complete darkness, and then one by one, everyone there lit candles." He unconsciously held an invisible candle up as if illuminating his memories. "We'd sing _Silent Night._ Mum would cry—I wished I could."

"Because nothing is that easy." Bodie understood totally. He couldn't look away from his partner as if an invisible thread had stitched them together.

"There was little peace at our house. Not at Christmas, not the rest of the year." Doyle carried on talking, but he'd turned to look at Bodie with such longing on his face. "I'd walk back to the house following the moon, just to preserve that…"

"Peace." Bodie brushed his knuckles against Doyle's battered cheekbone. "The greatest gift. Love…"

"Hope."

"Faith in whatever—whomever, as long as it's strong." Bodie breathed in. God, he loved this man, in all ways, at all times. "It's what we give, Ray, to others. Catch the bad guys, rescue the princess, push back the abyss for a couple more days."

"So who does it for us?" Doyle asked, wearily. "For all the Lady Veronicas we find, how many do we miss? It's gettin' hard, mate, to believe we have such power."

"It's you and me, together." Bodie didn't have to mind the gap between them, over the gear; he closed it easily, to kiss Doyle. "Like we always have—I save you and…"

"I rip that bloody bomb off your chest," Doyle whispered with a huff of laughter on his lips. He kissed Bodie, softly but with promise. "Don't know why it got to me tonight."

"Here I thought it was me." Bodie threaded his fingers through Doyle's fluff of curls. "It's all the sentimentality, the feeling that Christmas ought to be family, food and warmth. Been a long time since that was part of my life." Until now, he thought privately. Doyle was all of that and more for him.

"My old man's probably spent the night drinking up the special Christmas ale his local's brought in and one of me sisters is sure to have a child in the nativity play in the morning." Doyle leaned his head against Bodie's shoulder for just a moment. "I'd rather be here."

"It'd be a great deal more comfortable if we adjourned to your flat for a cup of tea and a shag," Bodie said, tugging on Doyle's scarf.

"I knew that was on your mind," Doyle smirked. He climbed out of the Capri, staring up at the night sky. His breath came out in puffs of white, the cold, crisp air very still. "There is a sort of peacefulness."

Shivering, Bodie turned his face up, but there was little to see with the fog obscuring the stars. "Where's your lighter, then?" Bodie scrabbled his fingers over Doyle's tight jeans. Surely he couldn't keep it in those pockets?

"What'd you want that for?" Doyle produced the thing from inside his jacket. He looked at the lighter and nodded, obviously coming to the same conclusion Bodie had. Doyle flicked the little igniter, causing the flame to erupt from his palm.

The symbol of purity and strength flickered in the night, lighting the way for the future. Where there was light, there was hope and faith.

"I'd have held that Raymond's hand," Bodie said softly, seeing reflections of the flame in Doyle's eyes. The nostalgia of the season was truly affecting him adversely. "And walked home after church with him."

Doyle grimaced good naturedly and Bodie expected either to be hit or for some kind of cutting remark. Instead, Doyle extinguished the lighter and clasped Bodie's hand tightly for just long enough to give and receive something tangible.

"You were good with her," Bodie said, starting for the front door of the building. "Lady Veronica. You'd make a great dad."

"I don't think fatherhood is in my future," Doyle shrugged ruefully, going around to the Capri's boot.

"Well, I've heard of blokes adopting children," Bodie mused. He'd never considered it before, but now it almost seemed plausible, desirable. He waited on the step for whatever Doyle was digging out of the car.

Doyle brightened with a bit of devilish humour. "Then I think I'd adopt a fatherless lad, not quite six feet, with bright blue eyes and dark hair. Has a taste for Swiss rolls."

"I've got a taste for something with outlandish curls and a churlish temper," Bodie muttered. "What have you got there?"

"Before Lady Veronica was snatched, when we thought we'd have a few days free, I went to Sainsbury's." Doyle held up a carrier bag. "For some Christmas supplies. Didn't think they'd be in the boot for three days, but I suspect in this weather, they've kept."

"What?" Bodie asked eagerly, his stomach suddenly ready for something sweet.

"You'll have to sing for your supper." Doyle ushered Bodie into the lobby, up to the first floor and into his flat. "In that boy's choir treble of yours."

"Haven't got one," Bodie said in the lowest register he could manage, snatching the bag away with a distracting kiss on Doyle's mouth.

"Oi!" Doyle protested, grabbing at him, but Bodie danced out of range.

Affecting a mincing, pepper-pot voice worthy of Michael Palin, Bodie squeaked, _"On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…"_ He pulled out a package of slightly squashed mince pies and the largest box of Rose's assortment the market must have sold. "You do know me well."

"You're mine, William Bodie," Doyle said, wrapping his arms around Bodie's waist. "My family, my heart, my soul. And the way there is through your stomach, I am convinced."

"Merry Christmas, Ray." Bodie took a big bite of mince pie and kissed him, all sticky.

FIN


End file.
